Panic Cord
Title: Panic Cord
Pairing: Bojan Krkic/Sergio Canales
Words: 1,000
Rating/Warning: PG; none.
Disclaimer: All lies. Title and lyrics from the song Panic Cord by Gabrielle Aplin.
Summary: An unmarked package arrives for Bojan. What he finds makes him relive a failed relationship.
Author’s note: This song has been on repeat, and I bought it just last night. Enjoy <3
You kept all the things I threw away
A leaf I picked up, a birthday card I made
Holding on to memories of you and me
We didn't last a year
We're just a box of souvenirs
There is a card in his postbox one Tuesday afternoon when Bojan arrives home from training, saying there is a package waiting for him at the desk in the lobby. The guard hands the brown-paper wrapped box over the counter and it is heavier than he expected. A lot heavier. He shifts his grip as he walks away.
There is no return address, he notices as he enters the elevator and presses the button for the sixteenth floor. How strange.
He ponders who would send him an unmarked package like this, and for a second he is wary of what he will find inside. Maybe it is from an obsessed fan and filled with love notes and baked goods. Or a surprise from his mother. Or one of his teammates playing a silly prank and sending him a box full of potatoes.
He rests the package on his hip and fumbles with his keys at his door. It sticks, but he gets it open on the second try. A light breeze ripples through the flat from where he left the windows open in the living room straight ahead. He drops his bag and keys on the table in the entry way and turns left into the kitchen to set the box on the counter and pull a knife from the block next to the blender. The brown paper tears away in one rip and the tape on the underlying cardboard box slits effortlessly under the knife.
Below are packing peanuts that Bojan rummages around in before his hand hits the smooth top of a lidded box. He reaches both hands in to lift it out. It is a glossy navy blue, one of those kinds you store photographs in, with a little silver metal label holder on the front. He turns it on the counter to read it.
‘Bojan.’
Frowning, he lifts the lid.
His heart sinks.
Resting at the top of the box is a football kit, the red of Spain, folded so he can read the back: number 9, with his name above it. The kit he gave to Sergio following the match against Belarus. The one Sergio had not played in because he played against France instead. How disappointed they both had been.
Bojan digs into the packing peanuts again, hand grasping for a note, a card, something to make sense of this box of mementos in his kitchen. He pulls out a sheet of paper, torn hastily from a notebook.
He sighs and grips the edge of the counter, the sheet of paper still clasped in his hand. It takes him a moment to recover his breath. His stomach churns. He doesn’t want to look at the rest of the box’s contents, but he feels compelled to.
He lifts the kit from the box to see what is underneath. The first thing to catch his eye is a menu from Casa Calvet, the restaurant they had gone on their first date in Barcelona. Sergio had been visiting on an off day having flown in just before dinner. The food was superb and they had left the restaurant hand in hand, going back to Bojan’s flat where they had watched a movie - Casablanca, he still remembers - before falling asleep on the sofa.
Next to the menu is a dried bloom. Last 23 April, la Diada de Sant Jordi, Bojan had gone to Santander only to deliver the gift, a customary red rose with a sprig of wheat. He had not known Sergio kept it until now.
Bojan replaces the rose in the box and picks up a CD. Sin Mirar Atrás. The album they listened to during the drive from Santander to Madrid last summer. Sergio hated David Bisbal, but Bojan loved the singer’s voice and so he had let him listen to it before switching to the Beatles.
The damn Beatles.
Maybe I pulled the panic cord
And maybe you were happy, I was bored
Maybe I wanted you to change
Maybe I'm the one to blame
The relationship had ended on Bojan’s terms. It was not mutual at all. He had broken Sergio’s heart, which had hurt worse than the relationship ending.
He did not want to admit it to himself or anyone, but Sergio’s transfer had been a big part of it. He understood the desire to play for a big club and win trophies and do something with his career, but Real Madrid? When Sergio played for Racing, they could be friends. When Sergio played for Madrid, they had to be rivals. They had to be. Even though they were friends off the pitch, the tension began to seep into their second lives off of it. In the Barcelona dressing room, Bojan was teased by the others for dating a Madrid boy, that Sergio Canales with the silly hair-cut and goofy grin. Xavi had finally barked at the others to shut up one afternoon after the jokes became ridiculous. His previous relationship with Iker Casillas was not a secret, nor was it something anyone spoke about now.
Bojan had plead with Sergio, anywhere but Madrid. What about Valencia? No, they were in financial ruin. Villareal? No, no shot at the title. Sevilla? No, no chance of getting into the Champions. Madrid was it.
Sergio had been overjoyed when the transfer went through, shrugged off the comments from the media about him selling out, and continued playing for Racing like nothing had changed. That was the one thing Bojan respected about the entire situation. Sergio had not allowed the new agreement to affect is current club.
But, it was not enough. Sergio was not the person Bojan thought he was, not anymore. They boy he once loved now seemed like a different person. Madrid had changed him.
Do re mi fa so la ti do
That’s the way the story goes.
Bojan returns the CD to its place and lays the shirt over top of everything before putting the lid back on the box. He tucks it under his arm and carries it to his room where he opens the door to his closet. He stands in front of it, biting his lower lip. Finally, he raises onto his toes and lifts the box over his head the slide it onto the top shelf.
Do re mi fa so la ti do
That’s the way the story goes.
Pairing: Bojan Krkic/Sergio Canales
Words: 1,000
Rating/Warning: PG; none.
Disclaimer: All lies. Title and lyrics from the song Panic Cord by Gabrielle Aplin.
Summary: An unmarked package arrives for Bojan. What he finds makes him relive a failed relationship.
Author’s note: This song has been on repeat, and I bought it just last night. Enjoy <3
You kept all the things I threw away
A leaf I picked up, a birthday card I made
Holding on to memories of you and me
We didn't last a year
We're just a box of souvenirs
There is a card in his postbox one Tuesday afternoon when Bojan arrives home from training, saying there is a package waiting for him at the desk in the lobby. The guard hands the brown-paper wrapped box over the counter and it is heavier than he expected. A lot heavier. He shifts his grip as he walks away.
There is no return address, he notices as he enters the elevator and presses the button for the sixteenth floor. How strange.
He ponders who would send him an unmarked package like this, and for a second he is wary of what he will find inside. Maybe it is from an obsessed fan and filled with love notes and baked goods. Or a surprise from his mother. Or one of his teammates playing a silly prank and sending him a box full of potatoes.
He rests the package on his hip and fumbles with his keys at his door. It sticks, but he gets it open on the second try. A light breeze ripples through the flat from where he left the windows open in the living room straight ahead. He drops his bag and keys on the table in the entry way and turns left into the kitchen to set the box on the counter and pull a knife from the block next to the blender. The brown paper tears away in one rip and the tape on the underlying cardboard box slits effortlessly under the knife.
Below are packing peanuts that Bojan rummages around in before his hand hits the smooth top of a lidded box. He reaches both hands in to lift it out. It is a glossy navy blue, one of those kinds you store photographs in, with a little silver metal label holder on the front. He turns it on the counter to read it.
‘Bojan.’
Frowning, he lifts the lid.
His heart sinks.
Resting at the top of the box is a football kit, the red of Spain, folded so he can read the back: number 9, with his name above it. The kit he gave to Sergio following the match against Belarus. The one Sergio had not played in because he played against France instead. How disappointed they both had been.
Bojan digs into the packing peanuts again, hand grasping for a note, a card, something to make sense of this box of mementos in his kitchen. He pulls out a sheet of paper, torn hastily from a notebook.
He sighs and grips the edge of the counter, the sheet of paper still clasped in his hand. It takes him a moment to recover his breath. His stomach churns. He doesn’t want to look at the rest of the box’s contents, but he feels compelled to.
He lifts the kit from the box to see what is underneath. The first thing to catch his eye is a menu from Casa Calvet, the restaurant they had gone on their first date in Barcelona. Sergio had been visiting on an off day having flown in just before dinner. The food was superb and they had left the restaurant hand in hand, going back to Bojan’s flat where they had watched a movie - Casablanca, he still remembers - before falling asleep on the sofa.
Next to the menu is a dried bloom. Last 23 April, la Diada de Sant Jordi, Bojan had gone to Santander only to deliver the gift, a customary red rose with a sprig of wheat. He had not known Sergio kept it until now.
Bojan replaces the rose in the box and picks up a CD. Sin Mirar Atrás. The album they listened to during the drive from Santander to Madrid last summer. Sergio hated David Bisbal, but Bojan loved the singer’s voice and so he had let him listen to it before switching to the Beatles.
The damn Beatles.
Maybe I pulled the panic cord
And maybe you were happy, I was bored
Maybe I wanted you to change
Maybe I'm the one to blame
The relationship had ended on Bojan’s terms. It was not mutual at all. He had broken Sergio’s heart, which had hurt worse than the relationship ending.
He did not want to admit it to himself or anyone, but Sergio’s transfer had been a big part of it. He understood the desire to play for a big club and win trophies and do something with his career, but Real Madrid? When Sergio played for Racing, they could be friends. When Sergio played for Madrid, they had to be rivals. They had to be. Even though they were friends off the pitch, the tension began to seep into their second lives off of it. In the Barcelona dressing room, Bojan was teased by the others for dating a Madrid boy, that Sergio Canales with the silly hair-cut and goofy grin. Xavi had finally barked at the others to shut up one afternoon after the jokes became ridiculous. His previous relationship with Iker Casillas was not a secret, nor was it something anyone spoke about now.
Bojan had plead with Sergio, anywhere but Madrid. What about Valencia? No, they were in financial ruin. Villareal? No, no shot at the title. Sevilla? No, no chance of getting into the Champions. Madrid was it.
Sergio had been overjoyed when the transfer went through, shrugged off the comments from the media about him selling out, and continued playing for Racing like nothing had changed. That was the one thing Bojan respected about the entire situation. Sergio had not allowed the new agreement to affect is current club.
But, it was not enough. Sergio was not the person Bojan thought he was, not anymore. They boy he once loved now seemed like a different person. Madrid had changed him.
Do re mi fa so la ti do
That’s the way the story goes.
Bojan returns the CD to its place and lays the shirt over top of everything before putting the lid back on the box. He tucks it under his arm and carries it to his room where he opens the door to his closet. He stands in front of it, biting his lower lip. Finally, he raises onto his toes and lifts the box over his head the slide it onto the top shelf.
Do re mi fa so la ti do
That’s the way the story goes.